


Solace

by Russ (Quasar)



Series: Time Heals [13]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Russ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After wrapping up the prison case, Jim has trouble letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

> Written April 1998. Takes place after the episode "Prisoner X."

The wind was free. It murmured over the damp grass bearing the scents of the city and rushed into the trees beyond. I raised my burning face to the sky, eyes closed, and drank the rich breath of the wind, blotting out the remembered smell of blood and hate and the concentrated sweat of a thousand men.

A small branch cracked and fell among the distant trees. The sound clapped dully off the buildings behind me, followed by a smattering of sharper echoes from cars in the parking lot. The angry voices and crackling of radios, the slamming car doors and clacking of handcuffs had ceased. All the motors had driven away. Only one calm heartbeat remained.

Taking a last deep taste of the free wind, I turned back toward the lot. When the prison's spotlights seared my vision, I elected to keep my eyes closed. The wind and the echoes of my own footsteps told me all I needed to know. There was a soft hole in the reverberations from one of the cars, a blind spot with a familiar scent, breathing slowly. His eyes opened with a whisper of lashes as I approached.

"Ready to go home?" asked the warm voice.

I nodded, pausing by the side of the car and trying to get my eyes to clear. Echoes couldn't tell me where the door handle was, and I was unfamiliar with this new sedan. A moment later he was beside me, apple-scented curls brushing my face as he bent down with a jingle of keys. He pulled the door open and stepped back, and I felt for the roof of the car to know how far to duck my head.

"You can't see, can you?" he asked.

"It's just blurry," I said. "Stings." My voice felt unfamiliar, like a tool belonging to someone else.

"We'll get you something for that when we get home," he assured me.

I said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The car moved, and I kept my eyes shuttered against the passing lights. Distance stretched between us and the prison, the world growing large again as I remembered what lay beyond the walls.

"Miller changed the notes, didn't he?" I said at last.

"What?"

"What did the note say that you got day before yesterday?"

"It said you were making progress."

I nodded into the blackness of the new-car air.

"Changed . . . you mean that wasn't the note you wrote?"

"One of the inmates recognized me."

"He knew you were a cop?"

"Yeah. I asked to be pulled out. But he had laundry duty."

"So he changed the notes. Oh, man. Jim, are you all right?"

There was no answer to that.

Then the car stopped and I climbed out. It must be after three in the morning, because delicious warm smells were coming from the bakery on the street level. The elevator made all the same grunts and squeals; the third-floor hallway still smelled of old paint.

I went through the door and paused, not knowing what to do. It was long past lights-out. I wanted a shower, but that wasn't allowed until morning . . .

I heard chair legs scraping across the floor, then he took my elbow and guided me into the kitchen. He sat me down and tilted my head back over the sink. I heard a cabinet opening and a plastic cap unscrewing.

"This is distilled water, man. I'm just going to flush out your eyes, okay?"

Cool and wet hit the bridge of my nose and flowed outward over both eyes. The stinging reawoke for a moment, then muted mercifully.

"Should have done this right away," he muttered somewhere above me. "I don't know what the hell Simon was thinking of . . ."

I tuned him out.

After a while the soothing flow stopped, and gentle hands urged me to stand. I was led somewhere and placed on something soft -- the couch, I realized sluggishly. Fingers worried at the buttons of my shirt.

"No!" I grabbed his hands.

"I just want to see how bad you're hurt, Jim. You got kicked a few times, didn't you?"

"I have to keep it on," I said uneasily. I redid the top button and checked that the collar was straight. It was one of the few things that kept me apart from the others.

There was a pause. "How about if I bring you another shirt down from your room? Would you like to change clothes?"

I nodded.

Footsteps went up, came back down, went into the bathroom and rummaged, came back to the living room. Heat and roaring started from the fireplace.

Soft cotton brushed my fingertips. "I brought you a sweatshirt, Jim. Can I take this one off now?"

I considered, then unbuttoned my shirt swiftly and pulled it off. Then the undershirt. I reached for the warm cotton, but hands got in my way.

"Just a minute, Jim. Let me take a look at those bruises."

I sat stiffly while gentle hands probed my side, washed stinging cuts and rubbed liniment over the worst spots. At last I was allowed to pull the sweatshirt over my head.

"You want to lie down, man? I think you should put some ice on your face. That eye's going to be really swollen by tomorrow morning."

I cracked my eyes open briefly and winced at the glow of the fire. I didn't want to lie down. I didn't want to sleep. My hands moved restlessly and found a throw pillow. I squeezed it against me.

He went away and got something from the kitchen, then returned and depressed the cushions next to me. "Come on, Jim, just stretch out for a minute and I'll ice that for you. It has to sting."

I found his shoulder, gripped it tightly. He didn't smell like the prison, or sound like it. I let him pull me down to lie with my head on his lap. His jeans were a day or two worn; he had slept in them last night, and eaten a taco sometime yesterday. His hands patted my shoulder, and coolness pressed against my face. I sighed, clutched the pillow, and balled my free hand under my cheek.

I woke suddenly. "Sandburg?"

The thigh under my head gave a jerk. "Right here, man."

Embers glowed in the woodstove. A bird chirped tentatively outside. A wet cloth was crumpled blurrily on the coffee table. I tried to wipe my eyes clear and hissed at the discomfort of burned skin over bruised flesh. He leaned over me and picked up the cloth, brushing it gently over my face.

I pushed his hands away and sat up. "What happened?" I blinked around at the dimness of the loft, realizing that Sandburg had never turned the lights on.

"You sorta zoned out for a while there, man," he said. "You feel okay now?"

"I'm fine." I stood and headed for the kitchen. Water. No, beer -- there wasn't any beer in prison. No, it was five in the morning; beer would be ridiculous. Juice, then. They didn't have passionfruit- guava blends in prison either.

Behind me, Sandburg turned a lamp on, its soft glow reflecting from the ceiling to burn my eyes. "You went totally non-verbal on me, and then you just fell asleep. I guess you're pretty tired, huh?"

"Didn't sleep much, inside," I grunted, swallowing greedily.

"Well, why don't you go on up to bed now? Simon said you didn't have to come in until after noon."

I nodded, then shook my head. "Shower."

"That's good, too. You don't want those bruises to stiffen up. Just don't get any soap in your eyes."

I waved at him vaguely and headed for the bathroom.

But for all my weariness, when I climbed into bed -- my own bed, in my own home -- I couldn't relax. I kept listening for the sound of men being dragged from the cells, boys being pinned to their beds. Each night I had lain there and known that if I stayed, I would end up on the List. And I was thankful that I wasn't one of the small ones, the pretty ones who got held down and plundered each night.

I had thought of Matty and what it must have been like for him. He was big and tough; he had died fighting. He wouldn't have been one of the ones on the bottom.

Sandburg would, though. The big men would fight for a chance at him.

I shivered, remembering the moment of disconnection when I had first heard Sandburg's voice in that ugly place.

I was in the pen, fighting for my life. The big man fought dirty until he had me on the floor. He flipped me face down and reached beneath the clothes that were my only armor. I struggled, but couldn't throw him off. Then a knife was in my hand, and I slashed back with the wicked blade.

Simon fell away from me, bellowing as he clutched at his bloody stomach. I tried to reach out and touch him, hold the edges of the wounds together, but he was carried away.

Then another was pushed into the ring. Slight, long-haired, wide- eyed. I got him in an armlock, pressed him to the ground. I ripped his clothes from him, smacking him when he resisted, ignoring his cries of pain and pleas for mercy, for someone to help him, ohgodpleasedon'tletthishappentome --

I sat bolt upright, the echoes of my own shout bouncing from the walls.

"Jim?" said a small voice.

"Blair!" I twisted around on the bed and stared through the rails to find him standing below, staring up at me. A heavy tome lay abandoned on the couch behind him.

"Are you okay?" We spoke as one.

My heart was pounding. "Dream," I said. "Just -- a dream."

He frowned. "You want to talk about it?"

"No. No, I'm fine." I lay back down and stared at the ceiling, listening to him return to the couch and flip pages to find his place again.

"Sandburg?"

"Yeah, man?"

"Could you come up here?"

A pause, then he headed for the stairs.

"Bring -- your book."

He froze. "What?"

"Do you think you could just come up here and sit where I can see you?"

"Uh . . . sure, man." He mounted the stairs, his footfalls several pounds heavier than normal. He reached the top and paused, looking around the room.

There was nowhere to sit.

"Right here," I said, patting the bed beside me. "Is there enough light for you to read?"

He looked at the brightening windows. "I guess." Gingerly, he sat cross-legged on top of the covers, as close to the edge of the bed as he could get.

"What are you reading?"

"Just the aja." He adjusted his glasses nervously and flipped pages again.

"Aja?" I repeated.

"Yeah, um, American Journal of Anthropology. A.J.A. -- aja."

"Oh." I lay back and closed my eyes again. I wasn't going to sleep, but at least I could relax. Apple shampoo, rustling pages thick with ink, little sighs and sudden grunts of comprehension had nothing to do with prison.

He read for a while with the book on his lap. Then he laid it on the bed and leaned forward limberly to rest his elbows on his knees, legs still crossed. Then he flopped back unthinkingly to lie with his head on my spare pillow and the book balanced on his chest. After a while his legs uncurled, kicking the comforter out from beneath him.

A few minutes after the page-turning had stopped, the heavy journal toppled over on his chest.

I rolled over and lifted it carefully from his face, setting it on my bedside table. His glasses followed. Then I reached down and pulled the comforter up over his legs. He shifted and murmured slightly.

Sighing, I let myself relax again. Something about Sandburg's presence, about the particular way his breath rushed in and out of his lungs, finally impressed on me that I was home, in a way that all the familiar sights and smells had not done.

The pigeons that I normally focused on to get to sleep were awake, active, claws scraping across the roof. The world outside was noisy with the beginning day. I fixed on Sandburg's breathing instead, listening to the soft pop of air between his lips. I fell asleep, and dreamed of keeping Sandburg safe from Vincent.

I woke with my roommate snuggled warmly in my arms.

He didn't wake when I disentangled us. He slept soundly as I crept down the stairs. While I was in the shower, he rolled over, yawned once, and pulled the covers back up to his chin. He didn't emerge until the coffee was ready; then he stumbled down the stairs with his hair sticking out in every direction and a puzzled look on his face.

He wandered into his own room, changed his layered shirts and taco- stained jeans for loose sweats, visited the bathroom and came back out just as the toaster dinged. I dished a third of the scrambled eggs onto a plate for him and sat down with my own breakfast.

"I lied." Where had that come from? I hadn't meant to speak.

He blinked up at me. "About what?" Around a mouthful of eggs.

I considered, unsure what I had meant. "About Peru. I said I didn't remember anything."

He waved his toast expressively. "I know, you couldn't tell me about it because it was classified."

I shook my head. "You thought I didn't remember because it was traumatic."

"Well, at first -- yeah. But later you told me what you could."

"It wasn't traumatic. Peru was -- it was the most healing experience I ever had."

He frowned. "I've heard the nightmares, man. You're carrying a lot of survivor guilt."

The blood flow to my face was already high because of the bruises and swelling, but my eartips heated. I ducked my head. "Yes. Losing my team was . . . hard. But then the Chopec took me in. They respected me, accepted me as guardian of the tribe because Incacha told them to. Incacha -- he made me part of his family. Built a little extension to his hut especially for me. Trusted me with his wife and let me play with his daughters. I . . . it was the first time I ever lived just to live instead of constantly training to kill." Incacha had taken Captain Ellison, the black ops agent, and turned him into Enquiri, the protector of the tribe, so smoothly that I barely noticed. By the time the Rangers showed up to pull me out of the jungle, I had begun to realize the only reason I was still carrying out my mission was because it benefited the Chopec. I questioned my own loyalty for the first time since I'd joined the Army.

Sandburg waited to see if I would say anything more. When I scraped the last of the eggs off my plate, he spoke. "Not that I'm complaining, man, don't get me wrong -- but why bring this up now?"

I hadn't planned to speak of it; I still didn't know why I had. "Because you make me feel the same way," I realized. "Like Incacha did. You remind me . . . of the good stuff. What it's all for." Last night I had been lost in Jim Curtis; this morning I was Jim Ellison again. I didn't even know how he'd done it.

He was looked pleased and flushed. I grabbed the empty plates and busied myself at the sink.

After a minute, he cleared his throat. "Um -- did I leave my glasses upstairs?"

"Bedside table. Go ahead." I turned my head and glanced at him as he mounted the stairs. A curious warmth curled inside me at the thought of Sandburg in my territory.

I pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the dishes.


End file.
